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But he has gone, A nation's memory and veneration, Among the radiant, ever venturing on, Somewhere, with morning, as such spirits will.

John Masefield

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John Masefield
Age: 88 †
Born: 1878
Born: June 1
Died: 1967
Died: May 12
Journalist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
County of Herefordshire
John Edward Masefield
Ever
Memory
Among
Nation
Memories
Venturing
Morning
Veneration
Nations
Radiant
Gone
Spirits
Spirit
Somewhere

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Man's body is faulty, his mind untrustworthy, but his imagination has made him remarkable.
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The Lord who gave us Earth and Heaven Takes that as thanks for all He's given. The book he lent is given back All blotted red and smutted black.
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Life, a beauty chased by tragic laughter.
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Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir, Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine, With a cargo of ivory, And apes and peacocks, Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.
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It ought to have gangsters, and aeroplanes and a lot of automatic pistols.
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Off Cape Horn there are but two kinds of weather, neither one of them a pleasant kind.
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Most roads lead men homewards, My road leads me forth
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All the great things of life are swiftly done, Creation, death, and love the double gate. However much we dawdle in the sun We have to hurry at the touch of Fate.
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I must go down to the sea again For the call of the running tide It's a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied.
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The three foundations of judgement: Bold Design, Constant Practice, and Frequent Mistakes.
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God warms his hands at man's heart when he prays.
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I have seen flowers come in stony places And kind things done by men with ugly faces, And the gold cup won by the worst horse at the races, So I trust, too.
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Oh some are fond of Spanish wine, and some are fond of French.
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God dropped a spark down into everyone, And if we find and fan it to a blaze, It'll spring up and glow, like--like the sun, And light the wandering out of stony ways.
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State are not made, nor patched they grow Grow slow through centuries of pain, And grow correctly in the main But only grow by certain laws, Of certain bits in certain jaws.
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I have seen dawn and sunset on moors and windy hills Coming in solemn beauty like slow old tunes of Spain.
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The luck will alter and the star will rise.
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Life's battle is a conquest for the strong The meaning shows in the defeated thing.
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The corn that makes the holy bread By which the soul of man is fed, The holy bread, the food unpriced, Thy everlasting mercy, Christ.
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All I ask is a tall ship and a star to sail her by.
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